


A Friend in the Dark

by satb31



Series: 1,000 Follower Giveaway Fics [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Poetry, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan uses poetry to comfort Grantaire after things go wrong with Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tumblr user earthtojuli: Modern Grantaire/Jehan brOTP; The two of them laying on the floor somewhere (whether they’re actually alone or it just feels like they are to them) and quoting poems and novels back and forth in such rapid succession that it becomes one epic of their lives. If you wrote this, I would love you forever, because I have a dire need for this for some unknown reason. I just really need more Jehan/R bro fics.
> 
> This was a challenging prompt to write, as my knowledge of poetry isn’t as encyclopedic as it should be, but I gave it my best shot!
> 
> The title comes from a quote by Helen Keller: “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.”

Prouvaire hasn’t heard from Grantaire for over two weeks.

It’s a common enough occurrence — since the earliest days of their friendship, going back to when they were both in college, Prouvaire has known that Grantaire sometimes just needs his time away, needs to retreat into himself so he can recharge while tackling his two passions, art and drinking. In the early days of their friendship, Jehan would ache at the inferred slight, wondering why Grantaire would push him away, but now Prouvaire has almost come to expect it. But he can’t stop himself from worrying sometimes, compulsively checking his phone to see if Grantaire has texted him, but it’s Combeferre who always pulls the phone away from him.

“He’s fine,” Combeferre says quietly, putting his hand on top of Prouvaire’s, trying to soothe his boyfriend’s anxiety. “It’s Grantaire. He’ll disappear, like he always does, and then one day he’ll wander back to the Musain with that shit-eating grin, wondering out loud if we’ve saved the world yet. And Enjolras will glare at him, and Bossuet will buy him a drink, and all will be well.”

And Prouvaire nods and turns back to his own work, to his teaching and his poetry and his quiet life with Combeferre. He’ll go outside and breathe in the early spring air and contemplate the bareness of the garden beds, where the green shoots that will become crocuses and tulips are starting to show their heads. It doesn’t seem like it right now, but spring will come, as it always does, and the sun and the warmth will come back to them.

And maybe Combeferre is right, and Grantaire will come back to them too.

But somehow this time the absence seems different to Prouvaire. The last time he had spoken with Grantaire — a passing conversation as they waited for their drinks at the Musain — Grantaire had seemed angry with him. As Prouvaire had idly chatted about his weekend plans with Combeferre and his endless frustrations with his job and his writing, Grantaire had only seemed to be half-listening, his eyes and his mind clearly elsewhere. He had glared at Prouvaire when he talked about his current writer’s block, snapping at Prouvaire when he complained about something silly Combeferre had done.

“Jesus, Jehan, you have a job you love and you’re practically married to Mr. Perfect. What the fuck do you have to complain about?” Grantaire had snarled, before stalking off to his corner of the bar, leaving Prouvaire gaping behind him.

And that had been the last time they spoke.

It’s the longest they’ve ever gone without speaking to each other for the duration of their friendship. Theirs is a friendship that goes through its ebbs and flows. There are the times when one is feeling the darkness and the other tries to bring him to the light, when Prouvaire tries to convince Grantaire of his worth as a human being or when Grantaire tries to protect Prouvaire from being crushed by the cares of the world. And there are the times when they are both consumed by the fires of self-doubt and worry, and they attempt to quell the fires with wine and tears — but it’s time that always ultimately extinguishes the flames.

But Prouvaire is afraid this could be the fire that consumes Grantaire once and for all.

Two weeks to the day, as he lay in bed next to Combeferre, resting his head on his lover’s shoulder, Prouvaire can’t help but to share his concerns out loud.

“I think something happened between him and Enjolras,” Combeferre muses, both of them well aware of the fact that Grantaire had carried a torch for Combeferre’s best friend for years. “Enjolras was so agitated tonight — more so than usual. And it’s not a political thing, I don’t think. Only Grantaire has the power to upset him that much.”

And Prouvaire knows that the obverse is also true.

“Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow and see how he’s doing,” Prouvaire remarks casually, his fingers playing on Combeferre’s chest.

Combeferre presses a gentle kiss to Prouvaire’s forehead. “I think that’s a good idea,” he says with his trademark gravity.

**

Prouvaire has a key to Grantaire’s apartment — a key that dates back to an incident when Grantaire passed out from excessive drinking and Jehan ended up dragging the landlord upstairs to let him in, which resulted in the threat of eviction — and he uses it, easing open the door and peering in. He is expecting darkness, but instead the late afternoon light is streaming in the windows of the loft, bathing the space in light. It’s why Grantaire moved there in the first place, so he could have light in order to paint.

As usual, the place looks like a bomb has just gone off. But at first he doesn’t see Grantaire amid the chaos — until he sees him lying on his back on the floor, completely motionless.

For a moment his heart is in his throat as he flies toward his friend and kneels beside him — and a wave of relief washes over him when he sees Grantaire’s blue eyes are open. Staring vacantly at the ceiling, as if the light behind them had gone out — but open.

“Hey,” Prouvaire says in greeting, his breathing returning to normal when he realizes his friend is still a man of this world.

“Hey,” Grantaire says blankly, his gaze never moving from the ceiling. His hair is tangled and unwashed, and a scraggly beard frames the bottom half of his face. He’s wearing a ratty gray t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, but his feet are bare.

“How’s life?” Prouvaire asks, sitting cross-legged next to Grantaire, as close to him as he can be without touching him. Grantaire is not a toucher or a hugger — it’s something the very tactile Prouvaire has had to adjust to over the years.

“Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, a medley of extemporania…” Grantaire begins. “And love is a thing that can never go wrong, and I am Marie of Romania.” He rolls his eyes melodramatically.

Jehan smiles slightly at the Dorothy Parker reference. “Living well is the best revenge,” he says, stretching out on the floor next to his friend.

That extracts a chuckle from Grantaire. “Parker for Parker. Not bad, Mr. Prouvaire.” He breaks his gaze from the ceiling to look sidewise at his friend. “Is the romantic becoming a cynic now? Say it isn’t so,” he says wryly.

Prouvaire shakes his head. “Not at all. ‘What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure — I think it is the hope of loving, or being loved,’” he quotes, stealing a glance at Grantaire.

Grantaire snorts. “Spoken like a man who never had to worry about dying alone. ‘Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; thus unlamented let me die.’”

Alarmed, Prouvaire turns over on his side, propping his head up on his arm. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” he implores his friend, quickly covering Grantaire’s hand with his own, then withdrawing it just as quickly. “What’s wrong?”

Grantaire swallows hard. “The sun’s gone dim, and the moon’s gone black. For I loved him—” he trails off.

“—and he didn’t love back.” Jehan finishes, the suspicions he had talked about with Combeferre confirmed. “Oh, Grantaire,” he says, wanting to say more but knowing him well enough to know he shouldn’t probe. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shrugs, lifting his shoulders off the floor in a gesture of feigned nonchalance. “‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master,’” he mutters. “Even if it looks like disaster.” Prouvaire has no idea what happened — he doesn’t dare ask — but somehow he knows it must have been ugly.

“‘The heart is made to be broken,’” Prouvaire reassures him. “‘I hold it true, whate’er befall/I feel it when I sorrow most/‘Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all.”

“It sure as hell doesn’t feel that way right now,” Grantaire growls. “‘The stars are not wanted now; put out every one/Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun/Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood/For nothing now can ever come to any good.’” He pulls himself up to a seated position, burying his head in his hands, shielding himself from Jehan’s gaze.

Prouvaire takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened between you and—” he trails off, knowing that there is always a silence between them when it comes to Enjolras. “But you know I love you more than words can ever say. ‘Words are easy like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.’” He sits up and places his hand on Grantaire’s back.

“‘I would not wish any companion in the world than you,’” Grantaire says simply.

A small smile creeps across Prouvaire’s face. “We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you,” he says.

Grantaire laughs sardonically— a laugh Jehan has never been so happy to hear. “Is Sylvia Plath really the best choice here, Jehan?”

Prouvaire grins. “Thankfully you don’t even know how to turn on your oven,” he teases. He rises to his feet. “Come on, let’s go to Corinthe and get some wine and some food in you,” he says, extending his hand to pull Grantaire up.

“‘Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used,’” Grantaire remarks as he rises to his feet, brushing his hands on his jeans. “And I use it well. As you well know, my most loyal friend.”

Prouvaire studies him closely for a long moment, then pulls him into a long embrace. “‘There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends.’” Prouvaire says as he pulls away, I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.’”

**  
It’s late when Prouvaire finally creeps back into Combeferre’s apartment. Combeferre is already in bed, lying on his back, snoring slightly with his book open beside him. Prouvaire picks up the book and puts it on the nightstand, then strips off his clothes and crawls under the covers, curling his body around Combeferre’s.

“Everything okay?” Combeferre asks sleepily, leaning back into Jehan’s embrace.

“‘Friendship is really the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love,’” Prouvaire whispers, burrowing his face in Combeferre’s neck, grateful to come home to this man tonight of all nights.

And the next day, just as Combeferre had predicted, Grantaire appears back at the Musain, slapping Bossuet on the back and buying himself a drink. But rather than approaching Enjolras as was his habit, he meanders over to the corner to join Prouvaire and Combeferre.

“How’s it going?” Prouvaire queries, eyeing Enjolras in the opposite corner.

‘Never give all the heart,’” Grantaire replies, pointedly not looking at the man in question. “‘For everything that’s lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delight.” He takes a long, thoughtful sip of his beer, then calls across the room, “Hey, Enjolras, have you saved the world yet?”

And Jehan knows now that Grantaire has finally come back.


End file.
